System's of Suffering

The shuttle descended through the dense, toxic haze that hung over Anthis, its sleek metal hull a glaring contrast to the crumbling industrial sprawl below. Lyra Soladren sat stiffly in her seat, her gaze fixed on the thick, amber-tinted window. Beyond it, the planet's surface sprawled out like a bruise on the galaxy, its atmosphere churning with pollution and lit by the constant flicker of flames from industrial stacks. She could already imagine the acrid stench clinging to her clothes, the filth seeping into every pore.

Her hands gripped the armrests tightly, her knuckles pale against her immaculate skin. This was it. Her exile.

The attendant beside her, a silent figure in the dark uniform of Soladren retainers, leaned slightly forward. "We'll be landing shortly, Miss Soladren. Please prepare yourself."

"Prepare myself for what?" Lyra snapped, her voice as sharp as the gleaming diamonds adorning her fingers. "To be thrown to the wolves? To be spat on and mocked by those filthy—" She stopped herself, exhaling sharply. "Let's get this over with."

The shuttle shuddered as it touched down on the uneven ground, its landing gear sinking slightly into the soot-stained earth. Lyra rose, smoothing her tailored jumpsuit, its opalescent fabric catching the faint, oily light that filtered through the shuttle's windows. She adjusted the collar, lifting her chin as though preparing for battle.

The ramp descended with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a landscape that looked more like the underbelly of a dying beast than a planet. The air was thick and hot, pressing against her skin like a suffocating shroud. Fires from distant furnaces glowed dimly through the haze, and the sound of machinery—grinding, roaring, endless—filled the air like a living heartbeat.

"Welcome to Anthis," the attendant said, his voice flat, before stepping aside to let her disembark.

Lyra hesitated at the top of the ramp, her eyes scanning the small gathering of people below. They were waiting for her—a mix of officials and her so-called host family. They were a stark contrast to the polished, pristine figures she was accustomed to. Their clothes were patched and stained, their faces lined with exhaustion and suspicion. One man's gaze, cold and unyielding, met hers, and she felt a ripple of unease.

"This is a mistake," she muttered under her breath, but she forced herself to step forward, descending the ramp with deliberate slowness. She would not let them see her discomfort.

As her feet touched the ground, the air hit her like a physical blow. It was rancid, a mix of oil, sulfur, and something metallic that made her stomach churn. She fought the urge to gag, swallowing hard as she approached the group.

"Miss Soladren," the cold-eyed man said, his tone neutral but his gaze anything but. "I'm Kael Marrik. This is my family. We'll be your hosts."

His family stood slightly behind him. A woman, likely his wife, looked wary but resigned, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Beside her was a young boy, no more than ten, staring at Lyra with wide, unblinking eyes. He clutched a tattered toy in his hands, its fabric worn thin.

"How charming," Lyra said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure we'll all get along splendidly."

Kael's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he gestured toward a rickety transport vehicle waiting a short distance away. "We should get moving. It's not safe to linger here."

"Not safe?" Lyra repeated, arching an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, am I supposed to be afraid of?"

Kael didn't answer immediately. He simply turned and began walking toward the vehicle. Over his shoulder, he said, "You'll find out soon enough."